


Sacred Saturdays

by fruitstripegum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitstripegum/pseuds/fruitstripegum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been years since Stiles has seen Derek—6 years, in fact. In that time, Stiles has finished high school, graduated from college, and spent a year working under his dad at the Sheriff’s station as Deputy Stilinski. What happens when the Deputy finds a recently returned Derek Hale in violation of the law?</p>
<p>AU-Human; One Shot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Saturdays

Saturday morning shifts aren’t his favorite, but Deputy Stiles Stilinski doesn’t mind them as much some of the other deputies do. Though he would never openly admit it, Parrish misses the constant activity and vigilance from his time serving overseas; Haig can barely show up on time for the night shift, lazy ass.

Stiles likes the quiet. Beacon Hills will never make it on to a top twenty list of cities with the most crime, and that’s alright with him. Most calls come in for petty theft, kids joyriding their parents’ cars, or the occasional cat stuck in a tree. Saturday morning shifts are even quieter than usual, with only the occasional radio chatter from the desk deputy. Stiles likes to grab a fresh bag of donut holes and some coffee from the shop on the square just after they open and head out to the eastern hills to watch the sun rise and the fog lift. He was diagnosed with hypervigilance his sophomore year of college, an affliction that leaves you more alert to everything around you: Stiles hears everything from the low volume radio static to the rustle of leaves outside to the just-started-squeaking right front break on his cruiser. Saturday morning shifts are his Zen time, his time to tune out as much of the world around him as possible while everyone else sleeps. Saturday mornings are sacred. In the year since he joined the force after graduating from college, Stiles has volunteered for every Saturday morning shift, with no incidences to report. His routine this morning is no different than any of the others before as he gets ready, radios in to the station on time, and heads over to Beacon Hills Bakery and Coffee.

As he meanders through the neighborhoods, houses spacing further and further apart the closer to the town line he gets, he notices a beautiful black Camaro parked illegally on the street. Saturday mornings are for street sweeping, thanks to statute 104.35.7b, a beautification statute which states that all vehicles must not be parked on the street from Fridays at 11PM through Saturdays at 6AM. Stiles hates to mar the windshield of the vehicle he’s mentally dubbing Black Beauty, but rules are rules. He pulls up behind the vehicle with Illinois plates, putting the plate number into his laptop to run while he begins the process of filling out the citation form. A soft beep some seconds later alerts him that the database has retrieved the owner information and he glances quickly to add a name to the citation, checking again to be sure.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” he mumbles under his breath as he stares at the name on the screen: Derek Hale.

Leave it to Derek _fucking_ Hale to ruin Sacred Saturdays with his gorgeous, illegally parked car. At least Stiles knows part of where he’s been these past six years. The car was registered in a suburb of Chicago eight months ago. Without warning, a memory long subdued resurfaces- Derek’s angry face laughing derisively at Stiles- one of the last times he saw the vehicle’s owner during his junior year of high school. Stiles sighs, shakes his head, and flips the red and blue lights on for visibility as he steps out of his cruiser and onto the pavement. Six years, he thinks as he walks toward the Camaro’s front, citation in hand and ready to be placed under the windshield wiper.

The sky is beginning to lighten in the pre-dawn, and Stiles, ever the hyperaware deputy, notices the dark, most-likely-illegal-in-the-state-of-California tint and stops to add this to the list of offences on the citation. He pulls his Maglite from its holster on his belt and clicks it on, peering into the dark windows, and receives a second unpleasant shock: Derek Hale, in the flesh, asleep in the reclined driver’s seat of the illegally parked Camaro with the too-dark tint. Or, at least the formerly asleep Derek Hale, who is now raising his hand to cover his sleep-heavy eyes from the bright shine of the Maglite pointed directly in his face. Stiles hastily lowers the light and taps the butt of the Maglite to the window, the clink clink of metal on glass sounding over sharp in his ears.

Derek opens the door of the Camaro with a groggy, “How can I help you officer?” as he uncurls his body from the vehicle, steps onto the pavement, and stretches his arms up over his head, joints popping, rumpled shirt rising a few inches from his waistline to show a dark treasure trail. His lazy manner turns abruptly stiff as his mind registers exactly who the officer he’s talking to is. Arms move from stretched up high to a tight band crisscrossing his muscled chest as he leans against the Camaro’s dark body. Stiles is still taking in the sight of him, slightly taller than he remembers, voice a little lower in register, but still inherently Derek. He clears his throat and looks, for the first time in six years into the eyes of Derek Hale.

“Your vehicle is parked illegally and your tint is more than 20%, which is in violation of California state law,” he lists off succinctly. Best to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“My what is _what_?”

Stiles repeats the list of offences, even pointing to the sign with the street cleaning schedule and the words “violators will be subject to fine and/or tow.”

“That’s bullshit Stiles,” Derek growls, “you can’t even see that sign unless you’re looking for it! It’s all covered up behind branches.”

“It’s ‘Deputy Stilinski,’” Stiles corrects him, “and the ticket has already been written, so you can take it or I can put it under your windshield wiper like I was intending to do before I found you sleeping in your car.”

Derek makes no move to accept the piece of paper Stiles in holding out. Stiles huffs and takes a few steps towards the windshield, tucking the citation deftly between glass and rubber. Derek stalks forward, pulling the ticket out roughly before shoving the piece of paper into Stiles’ chest. Another memory flashes to the front of Stiles’ addled brain, this time of high school Derek’s catcher’s mitt hand pushing high school Stiles into a bank of lockers.

Stiles had never understood the animosity Derek always had for him back then, all angry green eyes and cutting remarks. They weren’t apart of the same circle of friends- Derek hung out with the basketball team while Stiles palled around with his best friend Scott, Scott’s girlfriend Allison and Allison’s friend (and Stiles’ childhood crush) Lydia- but they did share a number of classes and some Stiles-hating member of faculty decided to put Stiles’ locker below Derek’s Stiles’ junior year, so some interaction was inevitable. This particular interaction from memory had resulted in locker vent-shaped bruises along Stiles’ shoulder blades.

He shivers for a moment before returning to the present. This wasn’t high school with bully Derek and scrawny Stiles. This was present day, and Stiles was a twenty-four year old deputy sheriff. He didn’t even look much the same as he did in high school, all lanky limbs and short cropped hair. Stiles has filled in his thin frame with wiry muscle, allowed his hair to grow out some. He was also the authority figure here, a man of the law.

“Derek,” he said with conviction, grabbing the ticket and offering it to him again, “you can contest the ticket in court if you wish, but it’s already been written whether you take it or not.”

Derek takes the ticket, rips it into tiny pieces, and throws the citation confetti back in Stiles’ face before making a move to shove him, as he’d done so many times before. Stiles’ police training kicks in instinctively as he dodges the obvious move, using Derek’s own momentum to take him to the ground. Stiles has Derek pinned, straddling his back and holding one arm behind him as he reaches for his handcuffs.

“Attacking an officer,” he tuts, “not very smart, Derek. Why don’t you and I take a ride down to the precinct? I’ll send a tow truck to take your car to impound.”

Stiles reads Derek his rights as he helps him to his feet and escorts him to the back of the cruiser before placing his fingers atop his soft, sleep mussed hair, “Watch your head,” and shuts the door. He climbs into the front seat, calls for the tow truck from impound, and radios into the station.

“Radio this is unit seventeen, I’m 10-19 with a 10-15,” he relays. “Suspect attempted to assault an officer.”

“I did _not_ attempt to assault you,” Derek growls from the back of the cruiser as Stiles shifts into drive and turns back around towards the station. “If I had, you would have been assaulted.”

Stiles looks in his rear view mirror at chiseled jaw and trimmed beard, Derek’s head outlined in the bright orange of the now-missed sunrise. His mind is a litany of memories as he makes the drive back to the station on auto-pilot: Derek, moody and dark, staring daggers at him while he waits to access his locker; Derek sweaty from morning practice, gym shorts-clad thigh touching Stiles’ shoulder after he’s decided he shouldn’t have to wait any longer for Stiles to gather his books; months of Stiles’ confusion, wondering why he’s dreamt of Derek again when he’s only ever had a crush (unrequited, of course) on Lydia.

The final one hits him as he pulls into the station: Derek on that last day, shoving him roughly into the empty bathroom next to their lockers, sliding the lock into place before roughly kissing a surprised Stiles, Derek’s hands roaming over his body, exploring, like they had in so many of Stiles’ dreams, but better than he ever could have imagined. Stiles has to adjust himself as he remembers what followed—Derek popping open Stiles’ button fly, pulling out his cock, which had never been so hard in his life. Derek sucking him off in a rush of wet heat and strong tongue and chapped lips. Stiles coming too quickly to warn him and Derek taking it all, eyes closed, looking so beautiful. And then Stiles had to ruin it by opening his mouth, saying the first thing that came to his mind, “uhh, thank you?” and Derek’s facing turning hard.

“This was a mistake,” he’d said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he stood up, unlocking the door and moving out into the hallway before Stiles had even full registered what was happening. He had rushed to stuff his spent dick back into his boxers and jeans, cursing the button fly for being so difficult to do up in a hurry. By the time he’d opened the door to the empty hall, face still splotched red from the arousing and confusing encounter, Derek was long gone… until today.

Stiles escorts his detainee through the empty halls of the sheriff’s station, the deputy on desk is nowhere to be seen, but has probably made a run out for breakfast before his shift ends. Stiles deposits Derek in an interrogation room, releasing him from the handcuffs and sitting down opposite him at the table. A thousand questions run through his mind- where have you been? What have you been up to? Why did you leave?- though Stiles thinks he knows the answer to that one. Instead, he settles on, “Why are you here?”

“Because some dipshit deputy with a complex decided to drag me here?” Derek responds darkly.

Stiles scrubs his face, day old stubble rough on his palms. “Not here in the station, Derek,” he groans. “Why are you in Beacon Hills? And why were you sleeping in your car?”

Derek is silent for a moment, assessing the Stiles in front of him, cataloguing the changes in appearance and demeanor, before responding.

“I’m in Beacon Hills because I’m moving back,” he offered grudgingly, “and I was sleeping in my car because _Laura_ sleeps like the dead. I got in late last night and she wasn’t answering her phone. She didn’t leave me a key to get in her house, so I parked in front of it and decided to take a nap until she woke up.”

Stiles is captivated by Derek’s adult voice, or was it always this deep and time has made him forget? This might also have been the longest string of words he’d ever put together in Stiles’ presence. He’d been a year older than him in school, but Stiles’ academic prowess had placed him in all advanced classes his junior year, meaning he had taken all senior-level classes, many of them with Derek; Derek had never been a vocal student, only answering when called upon never offering more than that.

He hadn’t registered that the house Derek had parked in front of belonged to Laura Hale, Derek’s older sister and co-owner of Hale Investments. He’d heard from somewhere that Derek had gone to college across the country for finance; it would make sense that he would come back to take his place in the company.

Stiles realized he was staring at Derek, and that Derek was holding his gaze, and the words came out before he knew it, like an airbag deploying in a crash.

“Why did you leave?” Just like the airbag, the question could never be stuffed back inside now that it had been released.

Derek cast his eyes down towards the metal table, severing the shared connection. He didn’t speak. Stiles hated that he’d done it again, ruined things with his words. That experience with Derek in high school had been his first real anything, other than a quick kiss with Lydia during a round of spin the bottle at Allison’s house—the end of Stiles’ crush on her when he realized it felt like he was kissing his sister—and it had awoken him to a side of himself he never fully acknowledged. Stiles had experimented more with his sexuality his senior year and into college, realizing he liked boys and girls equally, and even holding down a few steady boyfriends as he earned his degree in criminal justice. He was by no means inexperienced now, but the memory of that first time always remained. He’d jacked off to it more times that he could count, and had recalled it as recently as last week during a particularly nostalgic masturbatory session.

Stiles is so lost in his own mind he almost doesn’t notice when Derek starts talking, eyes still downcast, voice low.

“I’d been such a jerk to you,” he said simply. “All of senior year, I’d noticed you. You were smart and your friends were always laughing around you, so I knew you were funny. You were kind—you helped out anyone who asked during study hall. And you made me feel… things… I’d never felt for a guy before and it made me scared and angry at you that you could do that to me—“

“I didn’t know—“ Stiles cuts in before Derek continues.

“No, I know you didn’t know that. I hid it all, my feelings for you, under anger and sarcasm and I was such a bully to you and I had no right , but that afternoon I had been shooting baskets late by myself and I was coming to clear out my locker before graduation and you were there and…” he paused, sucking in a deep breath, “and I was selfish but I was about to leave town for a long time and I just wanted to try something… with you… and I rushed you and then I ran away like a coward.”

Stiles stood up, pacing the short space of the interrogation room, hands running over his face and through his own hair, trying to make sense of this information that had been dumped on him. He stopped mid-stride, turning to face Derek, hands on his hips for lack of a better place to put them.

“And what about now?” he asks.

“What… about…?” Derek begins, confused.

“Well, was that just a fluke, something to get out of your system? Or—“

“It wasn’t a fluke,” Derek whispers.

Before Stiles knows it, he’s rushed around to the other side of the steel table and has pulled Derek to standing and is kissing him full on the mouth. Derek is frozen in surprise only for a microsecond before he responds, greedily attacking his mouth, plunging his tongue into Stiles open mouth, before biting his lower lip, tongue swiping languidly over the captured body part. He releases Stiles’ lip and moves to nip and nibble his way across Stiles’ jaw to suck at an earlobe, blowing cold air as he pops it out of his wet mouth, a combination that sends shivers straight to Stiles’ cock like he’s seventeen all over again. This time, however, he gives as good as he gets.

Stiles’ hands are roaming over the hard, muscular planes of Derek’s chest and back over his shirt, tweaking a nipple in his fingers before roaming lower, fingers hovering at the waistband of his boxers, higher on Derek’s hips than his dark jeans.

“Off,” Stiles breathes, “I want it off.”

“What part?” Derek asks, mouthing Stiles’ exposed collar bone. Stiles doesn’t know how the buttons of his uniform came undone so quickly.

“All of it.”

They each rush to discard their clothes, shoes flipping into corners, pants rustling to the floor, shirts all but ripped off in their haste. Stiles recaptures Derek’s mouth in a searing kiss as he helps the man out of his boxer briefs and sinks down to his knees. He takes Derek’s thick, long member into his hand, licks the glistening pre-come from his slit, stares up at him as he takes as much of him as he can into his mouth. Stiles has waited six years to return the favor, and he’s going to make it worth it.

He slides his mouth back and forth on Derek’s long cock, pumping his hand in time with his mouth’s ministrations at the thick base. His other hand pulls softly at Derek’s balls before sneaking around to play at his hairy hole. He slips his index finger in to the first knuckle, still sucking and licking and pumping on his dick, pushing in to manipulate his prostate when he’s met with little resistance.

Derek’s has one hand holding himself up against the two way mirror, one hand resting lightly on the back of Stiles’ head as if he’d meant to direct him, but Stiles needs no direction. He’s envisioned this in his mind so many times and yet reality is turning out to be so much better.

Derek’s breath is becoming labored, his hips twitching with want. Stiles is taking him deeper in his throat now, the mixed sensations sending shockwaves through Derek’s body as he tries to hold off the inevitable.

“Stiles,” he huffs, “I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” he tries to pull himself away to come, but Stiles has other ideas and sinks his mouth down as far as it will go, triggering Derek’s orgasm, swallowing as he slips another digit into his ass.

Stiles slows his ministrations, pulling his mouth off Derek’s still half-hard erection and stroking his own straining, leaking member. “I want to fuck you so bad,” he breathes, releasing his fingers from Derek’s ass and standing up. Derek is just a few inches taller than him now, he notices.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Derek asks, voice heavy with need. He pushes off the wall to lean over the cold interrogation table, ass inviting.

Stiles spits into his own hand, covering his cock in saliva and the last vestiges of Derek’s come, positioning his head at Derek’s entrance. He strains to keep slow, slipping his glistening cockhead into the tight orifice, the need to pump vigorously almost overwhelming. Stiles grabs Derek’s hips, urging him to settle back against him at his own pace. Derek pushes back eagerly, cupping his rapidly growing erection. Stiles sets an insistent pace, he’s not sure how long he can last with so many years of pent up yearning. Derek’s ass is so much better than he ever had any right to imagine. Stars hover in his eyes as he pumps and pumps, extracting almost to the point of leaving him fully before slamming back in as far as he can go.

Too soon, he feels his balls retract, a sure sign he’s about to come. He pumps once, twice, hard, before pulling out fully to come in thick spurts across Derek’s back. Derek’s second orgasm comes by his own hand soon after, and he has the forethought to aim for his discarded boxers.

Stiles wipes Derek’s back down with his undershirt and they slowly collect their wayward clothes, stopping to kiss, nip, and suck and various parts of each other’s bodies as they dress. Derek helps Stiles button up his uniform’s shirt, sans undershirt now. It’s a few moments before either of them speaks.

“What now?” Derek asks. He’s settled back into the metal chair Stiles had placed him in initially, his pose relaxed and comfortable.

“Now, I’ll return you to your car,” Stiles smiles. “I have a shift to finish.”

Stiles walks Derek, now free of handcuffs, out of the interrogation room and back through the halls of the Sheriff’s station and past the front desk where the desk sergeant has returned with a bag emblazoned with golden arches.

“Tyson,” he nods on his way out the door.

Tyson grunts, his mouth full of McMuffin.

Stiles walks with Derek the half block to the small police impound lot and steps inside the gate operator’s booth for a brief chat with the attendant. It was a misunderstanding, he assures him, and the Camaro’s been in impound for less than an hour. He doesn’t need to be charged for the impound, and Stile’s will cover the tow. The gate opens and Derek and Stiles walk towards the shiny black coupe, Derek feeling around in his jeans pockets for his keys.

“So, about that ticket,” Derek begins, once again leaning against the back fender of his car.

“I think we can let it slide this once,” Stiles plays along, pulling out his citation pad, tearing out the peach colored original ticket and writing along the bottom of the now-void citation. “But just in case you need anything else…” he taps the handwritten number with a wink.

“You have a good morning, officer,” Derek offers with a quick kiss to Stiles’ cheek before he slides into the car and turns the engine over.

“It’s deputy,” Stiles corrects with a smile.

“Deputy,” Derek amends.

He drives off, back to his sister’s house, Stiles assumes. Stiles walks back towards the station, climbs back into his cruiser, and smirks at the unopened bag of donuts and cold coffee. He looks down to his phone, docked in his console, to see a new text message from an unsaved number:

_Dinner this evening? –D_

His smirk widens to a full, toothy smile as he responds:

_It’s a date._

**Author's Note:**

> This if my first Sterek fic and was inspired by this post http://tinyurl.com/o3mfl8h


End file.
